


And Shifty Makes Three

by Sarielle



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Bisexual Fiddleford, Coming Out, Dysfunctional Family, Family Issues, Family Secrets, Fluff, Gay Demiro/Ace Ford Pines, Gay dads in the 70s is kinda ehhh, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Honestly I'm only ever writing Gay Fanfiction where we don't get hurt or die, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, ND Ford Pines, Neurodiversity, Same-Gender Parents, Science Dads and their Alien Grub Son, The Author's own bitterness acquires a prose style and form, WDW's Shiftyverse AU, but nothing graphic or violent I swear, it's gay and no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7580200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarielle/pseuds/Sarielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ford Pines and Fiddleford McGucket deal with the ups and downs of relationships and parenthood in 1970s Oregon. A task not much aided by the fact they have to keep secret the true identity of their shapeshifting alien grub son, from friends, family and the Feds.</p><p>Based on WDW's Shiftyverse, can be read as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Shifty Makes Three

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WDW](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WDW/gifts).



> Hello Again Everyone! And a plain old Hey to new readers!  
> I've been away a while! So these notes might get a little unwieldly! 
> 
> A huge ineffable thank you to the wonderful and many-talented [WDW](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WDW/pseuds/WDW), both for writing the [fic ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7263031/chapters/16490731)this is based off (and then spending many an hour exchanging headcanons with me which culminated in this fic here) but also for beta-reading this behemoth and making something making out of 12+k of hypomanic run-ons. Thank you so much Dubs! You're a Star!<3
> 
>  **Second thing, an apology:  
> **  
>  I started 'Shadows on a Cave Wall last year largely as a coping mechanism, angsty vent fic where Ford my absolute most favourite character was psychotic and gay and neurodivergent like me so I could have representation and something grounding to do during an episode. I didn't anticipate it getting so popular and I also didn't anticipate (and this is pretty stupid on my part) that writing in the head-space of a psychotic character might trigger my own symptoms again and consequently make it hard and downright unpleasant to finish that fic. So yeah that's why Shadows is cancelled for now, and while I hate to do that and leave people in the lurch it's just much better for my own health.
> 
> This fic is my lighter happier fluffy gay answer that shadows. Even though It's not super happy, much like my Shermy series there's a lot of Stangst going on behind the scenes because the Pines Family is A Relatable Mess but in my eyes it's the fluff I need. Mainly because 2016 has been a shit year, and I'm very sick of the only stories where I see myself being where we suffer. I understand the appeal but I'm just an exhausted gay bean who is sick of burying every gay character they see.
> 
>  **About the AU:**   
>  You don't need to have read Dubs' fic The Weirdest Family in the Galaxy but it helps.   
> Context of this AU is Fidds and Ford raised Experiment #210/ Shifty as their kid before Bill ruined everything and drove Ford into a serious paranoid psychotic breakdown which resulted in Shifty being frozen, Ford and Fiddleford's relationship deteriorating, the first portal incident, Fidds leaving him. Cut to post-the portal incident (all we know so far is) that Stanley found his 'nephew' Shifty and took him back to the family disguised as his his dead brother Stanley's son. 
> 
> This fic also takes place in my Shermaine Pines canon because Dubs asked to use my characters/backstory. You don't have to have read that series to read this either it'd just explain some of the backstory and the pronouns. 
> 
> **Trigger warnings for** medication reference, ableist language, implied and discussed homophobia and microagressions but nothing explicit, no slurs, no graphic descriptions of hate crimes, gore or violence bc really If I needed any more of that in my life i'd leave the house. Right. Anyhoo....Author's Notes More like minor lapse in filter and slow descent nihilism am I right? *finger guns*
> 
> **tl;dr:** I love WDW she is shaped like a friend, read notes for AU context, I'm a bitter gay enby and sick of the gayngst in all media. Enjoy this subjectively happy fluff? Thank you for reading.
> 
> My tumblr is trustme-im-a-pirate, Feel free to ask me anything about this or other fics or just scream gutturally in ancient Eldritch tongue-I mean, that's cool too. 
> 
> Also comments on my works clear my skin, water my crops, nourish my non-existent children, so on and so forth, so please, if you'd like leave one it'd make my day.

  ** _Gravity Falls, Oregon 197X_**

****

It was a slow work day in Gravity Falls.  As he had overslept well into the afternoon, Stanford Pines was trying valiantly to catch up on his journal entries.  His circadian rhythms had become more of a samba than a metronome and he strongly suspected his body clock was tuned to a time zone yet to be discovered.  _Atlantis,_ Fiddleford had once joked.

A ballpoint pen whirred across the room and bounced off Stanford’s temple, distracting his rather meandering thoughts.

“Brrrp—rrroo.”

He looked up, an eyebrow raised, to see a large mass of translucent pink slime going through the jar of pens on his desk. Ford sighed with fond exasperation.

“What’s the matter, Shifty?” He asked the creature next to him. “And remember to use your human words, we talked about this.

The slime, true to his name, shifted into a more solid body - his current base state of choice, an odd hybrid between a slug and a toasted marshmallow with two black eyes.

Then a human mouth appeared onto his amorphous face, with full lips and tongue, for the express process of blowing Ford a raspberry.  “Pbbt!” Shifty sprayed flecks of slime onto the elbow patches of Ford’s jacket. “Pffbbbbtttt!”

He recoiled slightly out of instinctual revulsion, and then looked at the substance on his clothing with a new scientific interest.   _Huh… Fascinating._     The phone rang down the hall, but it stopped after a few rings and he heard Fidds’ footsteps coming from the kitchen.

He’d let the other man deal with that, it was usually for him anyway.

Ford turned his chair around to face Shifty. “Okay, my boy. I get it. You’re getting bored cooped up in the study.  How about we play a game? You can choose whi -”

 “Ford, Phone for ya!” Fidds called down the hall.

He blinked.  _Odd, who would be calling him at 4pm on a weekday?_

“Yeah Just a minute!” He hollered back.  “Hold that thought, Shifty. We’ll  have to postpone that game!  Stay here, okay?” 

The little alien looked up at him and blinked triple-lidded sclera-less eyes at him.

 _“Breee-ee-eep_.” Said Shifty, transitioning from his gelatinous form to a big 3D question mark and then to a carbon copy of the chartreuse rotary phone they kept in the dining room.

“I don’t know, buddy. I haven’t answered it yet. I’ll tell you when I get back.” The phone acquired a pair of black eyes that blinked at him slowly.

“ _Broop -mree-ee-breep_.” The alien changed into a rather impressive gaseous grey cloud, complete with fake rain that drizzled lightly on the wooden desk top.  Ford did really _not_ want to think too hard on what kind of chemical secretion it really was, he just wiped down his desk with a rag.

“Clouds? Rain?” He glanced out the window of his study. It was a slightly overcast afternoon in the middle of June, not a drop of rain in sight. He turned back to the alien confused. The cloud acquired a big frowny face.

“Oh! Aha! You’re saying you feel sad? Oh! Well, very good, Shifty, that’s a very good observation. Humans often use the weather as a metaphor to describe emotions. You’re very astute, aren’t you?” He patted the creature’s amorphous head. “Your Pa’s been teaching you about metaphors, huh?”

Somewhere in Ford’s skull, the dry voice of Logic and Good Science was berating him for referring to an experiment like a human child. He ignored it, as he often did. Shifty was different; he couldn't bring himself to detach from his fondness for the little creature.

“Mree-bri-eep.” Shifty vocalized, with great gravitas to his voice. Or at least it sounded like gravitas - the little alien’s natural vocalisations didn’t require any form of larynx, so he lacked the same kind of tone human voice carried. Still, Ford couldn’t fault him for not wanting to form a fully functional human vocal tract and throat every time Ford or Fidds spoke to him.  Anatomy, as he was far too aware, was… Well, it was _complicated_.  That said, Ford could admit a little jealousy at the alien’s capacity to change his form if displeased with it.

He clenched his fingers to fists. _Never mind that now, Stanford._

“ _Stanford_? Ya comin’?” Fiddleford called again, a very subtle twang of annoyance to his voice, one that was probably undetectable to anyone other than Ford.

“Yeah, Sorry!” He called back, standing up. “Sorry Shifty, I won’t be long, promise.”  The little creature squeaked and shapeshifted through a series of rapid firms before settling down as an identical copy of the clock on Ford’s bookshelf, only ticking loudly.

“Duly noted,” Ford said, smiling.

* * *

 

Ford leaned in the dining room doorway. “If it’s MENSA fishing for money again, tell them I died years ago, hovercraft accident, very tragic.” He said.

Fiddleford rolled his eyes, phone still cradled to his ear.  “Here he is, Mrs. Pines. Nice speakin’ with you, ya take care now.”

He paled immediately when he realised who was calling.  “…You couldn’t’ve told her I was out or busy or spontaneously combusted or something?” He whispered, aghast.

Fiddleford smiled, simultaneously smug and teasing. Any genteel mannerisms from his polite telephone voice completely fell away and he shoved the receiver into his boyfriend’s face.

“Your problem now, darlin’” He said with a wink and an open-toothed smile. “I did _my_ time.”

Ford flipped the six-fingered bird (that was, the regular bird but with an extra middle finger – double the power, Stan had once joked, you’re a force of pure destruction, Sixer and – Again? Really Ford, just stop.)

He sat himself down at the dining table, which was a bit of a misnomer.  These days, with him and Fiddleford run ragged with lab work and Shifty not a fan of a human diet, it was used less for dining these days and more for family card games.

“Hello? …Is that you, Mom?” He asked into the receiver, trying to tamp down the cold crystalline panic curling it’s icy fingers through his gut.

His parents didn’t call just to shoot the shit, they weren’t that kind of people.   In fact, his mother called for only two reasons, so unless... No, it was pointless to worry about that, he doubted anyone was dead or dying if Fidds was joking around. So this was likely a social call.  Eugh.

Well wasn’t that just _groovy._

“ _Schtaaanford_ , baaaby! How’s my brightest star?”

Oh boy, she was feeling _real social_ by the sounds of things.  Ford pinched the bridge of his nose where his glasses sat and let out a loud sigh of exasperation. Covering the receiver, of course. Oh sweet mother of Moses, he did not need this in his life right now.

 “Uh, Hey…. Ma… I’m well.  Have you been drinking?”

“What’s that got t’do with anythin’, I been to a ‘Daughters’ meeting, y’know, my group of ladies that I go to every month.”

Ford groaned as quietly as he could.  So.  This was going to be one of _those_ calls, the ones where his mother assumed he knew everyone and everything happening in her life up until recently despite them not having actually spoken for several months.  Despite Ford’s constant reminding, Opal Pines always somehow forgot that ESP was not a two-way mirror.

 “No, Ma. I don’t, is that some charity group from Temple?” He was tired, the combination of trying to build a trans-dimensional portal while raising a baby alien starting to catch up with him. It was getting harder to iron the annoyance out of his tone.

Luckily, it would appear his mother was far too gone to notice. “Mm, kind of...The Daughters of the Nile✷, remember I told you about ‘em that one time we met up in the park in Jersey City… the one with all the nice cherry trees.”

Ford’s forehead crumpled, confused. “Jersey? Ma, I don’t know what you’re on about, the last time we went to Jersey City together we were, I mean, _I_ must have been about 14.  It was definitely pre-Shermy.”

“Maybe I’m getting you two, all mixed up again,” Ford clenched his jaw so hard his back teeth ground together. The unpleasant sensation of bone against bone.  _Of course_ liquor loosened the mentions of his brother from his mother’s lips, it wasn’t surprising. Didn’t make it hurt any less.

 “- Well anyways, I just got home.  It was Cherie’s birthday you see, there was rum punch.” She giggled with the glee of a rebellious child.   Ford furrowed his brows.  “Your father had to come pick me up.” Her tone darkened. “Just as well, mind you! Did y’know, just last week I left in him in charge for an hour while I went for groceries and he took ya sister down to the damn pokies, Ford!”

He wanted to be surprised, disappointed even, but the news was just so damn expected given his most recent memory of his father, he couldn’t summon much indignation or anger to his voice.

“Shermy?”  Ford asked in affected shock.  “But she’s just a baby, Ma, how could he -”

“She’ll be six this summer, Stanford.” She replied, before adding as a hurried addendum. “But that’s still far too young to exposed all that gambling and vice.”

“Six, really…? Huh.” He tried to picture his sister’s face but all his head conjured up was a rosy-cheeked toddler with soft brown ringlets and a tendency to chomp down on anything in her reach. “Guess they really do grow up fast, she'll be set to start school soon, then.”

“Yep, In the new year,” said his mother.

“Wow…”

He trailed off not knowing what to say. Out of the corner of his eye, Fiddleford wandered in from the direction of the kitchen carrying a hot cup of coffee towards him. Ford turned, momentarily startled.

“I just made a fresh pot.” Fidds whispered as way of explanation. Putting a coaster down on the table in front of him. Ford smiled, appreciative. “Thanks. Can you check Shifty’s doing okay by himself, I left him playing down the hall and I don’t want him getting into the liquor cabinet or worse.”

“I’ll go fetch him, Lil Grublet’s prob’ly in need of a change of scenery.”

Ford smiled and reached out to grab the other man’s hand and press his lips to his scuffed knuckles.

“Thanks, Fidds.”

“Who ya talking to?” his mother chimed in his ear, reminding him what he was supposed to be doing.

“Fidds- Erm- I mean Fiddleford McGucket, my research partner. He answered the phone before. You met him at our graduation do you remember?”

 _Don’t make it gay, Ford. As far as she knows your relationship is all about Research and Science and you definitely haven’t been sharing a bed for the last year or so._.

“He’s that nice southern boy ain’t he?” said Opal. “The one who did somethin’ with computers. Didn’t you go to his wedding?”

Ford chuckled, despite the awkwardness. “Yes, Ma. That’s him.”

“What’s she say?” his partner mouthed. Ford just grinned, smug as all hell.  _Aha! How the tables have turned._

“Hey McGucket!” He called as if he were in the other room instead of being close enough for Ford to hear his breathing.  “My Ma thinks you’re a nice southern boy.”

Fiddleford laughed leaning over to brush some downy hair from Ford’s eyes and press a kiss to the other man’s forehead.

“Thank you kindly, Mrs Pines.” He all but crooned into the mouthpiece.

“Can you bring me my journal too when you go to check on Shif- Ah-I mean- _the experiment_ , in the study?”

It felt wrong to call the little creature that now, it felt mean. But he never knew who else was listening into this conversation. Especially on the phone.

“Sure, no problem.” Said Fiddleford.

“Thanks.” He watched Fidds as he disappeared into the hallway only snapping out of his downright embarrassing stupor when he caught his own reflection in the hatch cabinet glass staring all moony back at him like a lovesick owl.

He pushed his glasses up his nose, self-consciously. “Sorry, Ma. Jus’ taking care of housekeeping. You have my full attention now, Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, everything's swell…I just- I miss my boys, is all.” Boys, _plural_.  No, no, he wasn’t going to think about that. “Shermy misses you, and she’s getting far too quick for me to keep lying to her, about you comin’ home soon.” Opal Pines sighed. “Sorry baby, you know I’m a gloomy drunk.  Maybe I should just go…”

Ford closed his eyes. He needed a damn nap. “Ma…I’ll be home for Hanukkah; can’t you wait til then? I mean, you know I’d come by more often if I could, but I’m- just-” He sighed into the mouth piece.  A lot went unsaid. That was the way of the Pines. Things always went unsaid.

Things like: _‘I would literally prefer to walk a mile on hot spiky coals than spend a weekend in that ghost town, with a man who manages to express his complete and utter contempt for me without a single word.’_

He loved his mother and his sister of course, but even being around them at home was hard. There was a routine and rhythm he wasn’t a part of anymore.  Little Shermy slept in the top bunk in his old room, which meant that when he went home to Jersey over breaks and visits, he had to sleep in the too-small bottom bunk.

_Stanley’s bunk._

“-busy.” His mother finished for him, her tone grave. “I _know_ already, Stanford. I know.”

“It’s not just that, I’m sure I could schedule family time in around my work it’s just- I can’t always afford to cross the country to get there, you do understand that, right?”

“Yeah, I do.” There was a sad silence down the phone line, pensive and uncomfortable. _God that was his family summed up wasn’t it?_ Sad silences where there used to be jokes and gossip. Constantly waiting in the pauses for another voice they knew wouldn’t come.

“What about if we come to you for once?” Opal Pines seemed to sober up with the suggestion.  “Just Sherm and I, coming up to Oregon- it’s coming up to summer break so lotsa folk round here go on vacation, I barely get any calls in the Summer months-  though as much as your father would love to see you I’m sure, I don’t think he’d be able to get away from the shop.”

 _Good, Excellent_. He’d be in his own house with his own rules and he wouldn't have to look That Man in the ~~eyes~~. ~~Eye.~~ Sunglasses.

And then, just as quickly, reality hit.  “I… I, Uh. Well….”

Shifty was here and Fiddleford lived here now. They shared a bathroom, slept in the same bed…it wasn't exactly subtle.

How did one even address that? ‘ _Hello mother, come right in and meet my gay lover and our shapeshifting alien grub son._ ’

 _Great Idea, Stanford._ God, He honestly didn't know which part she’d think was worse.

He took a long swig of his coffee to give himself a chance to think, staring at the bookshelf where the phone cradle sat, shelves lined with textbooks that were practically ornamental compared to what he and Fidds knew.   ‘Multi-variable Control Systems in Mechanical Engineering’ – Ah, yes, that must be one of Fiddleford's’.  “ _Butterflies and Tornados: An Introductory Course in Chaos Theory_ ” was one of his own, he recognized. _Applied Electromagnetics_?  That was probably Fidds’ too…

Wait a minute, why did they have a copy of the Communist Manifesto? Why did Fiddleford even keep a copy of the Communist Manifesto next to his textbooks on Advanced Mechanical Engineering on display for the world and their dog to see?

Ford pinched his brow. That man was a mystery some days.

His mother spoke up again, the brief static of the phone line making Ford flinch. “That’s… only if you want to see us is all… I mean, Shermy would love a trip like that! She's not left Glass Shard since your Nonna passed. But- I mean, we wouldn't wanna intrude on your life now.”

 _Oh good,_ he thought with bitter resignation, _here comes the guilt train express._ Opal Pines was a master at emotional manipulation and today she was slathering it on thick with a knife. He blamed the rum punch for this particulary blatant display.

 Content to mill about in his own bitterness for a while when his eyes came to rest on a photograph propped up loose and unframed against the spines of books, he picked it up.

 It was from Thanksgiving last year, Fiddleford, Tate and Ford had all come down to stay with on the McGucket farm in rural Arkansas. In the photo Ford and Fidds sat together at the huge dinner table with Tate on his father’s knee, Momma McGucket beaming by her son’s side flanked by as many of her 10 children they could fit in the shot, not to mention all the in-laws, kids, Pa McGucket, and a very affectionate Border Collie called Laika. 

Ford’s family portrait would fit on a Polaroid, just him, his parents and Shermy, no human kids of his own, no nieces and nephews, no grandparents, no Stanley. Still they were his blood, his kin, he couldn’t cost his mother another son. He wasn’t completely heartless.

“No, I would love – ah, if you can afford the trip, Ma. I'd love to see you. This part of Oregon is beautiful and I’m sure little Sherm will love it here.  And, uh, just let me know what your plans are once you are a little closer to the time.”

He hung up the receiver and swigged back the rest of the coffee Fidds had left him.  A beat later, Ford slumped like a puppet with cut strings.  “Why did I _agree_ to that?” he groaned into his hands.

Where would Shifty go for a whole week while his mother was here? Locking him away like – like some sort of prisoner was out of the question. Perhaps they could teach him how to shift in something innocuous? A pet cat, or a goldfish.

No, Shifty was a baby, an alien baby but a baby all the same. He hadn’t developed the skills to hold such a complex form for an extended period. Ford didn’t want to harm the little fella, despite his own scientific curiosity.

He stood up, chair scraping the on the floorboards, he headed back down in the direction of the study only to by greeted with the familiar steely strums of Fiddleford’s banjo.

 He turned heel and followed it into the living room where Fidds sat cross-legged in an armchair, instrument in his lap, adoring audience of one shapeshifting alien baby below him on the carpet.

_✯“I’m bringin home a baby bumble bee,_

_Won’t my Momma be so proud of me?_

_I’m bringin’ home a baby bumble bee…”_

 “Is that a real song or are you just winging it right now?” Ford interrupted.

Fidds just grinned, He lifted his hand off the strings to hold his arm to his forehead in a mock Southern Belle swoon.

 “Oh Stanford Pines, bless your poor uncultured Yankee heart.” Then he snickered, “you haven’t even got up to the strange part yet.”

Ford took a seat on the floor next to Shifty who was more or less shifted into a human toddler form, big black eyes and antennae notwithstanding.  He was holding his little hands cupped out as if he was holding something in them, Ford was rather confused.  “Whatcha doing, Shifts?”

Shifty looked up at him eyes wide he held out his empty cupped hands to show Ford.

“Bzzzzzzzzz,” he said solemnly.

“I…see…” said Ford slowly, who did not.

Fidds resumed playing and singing.

 _“I’m bringin’ home a baby bumblebee!”_ He stopped and gasped in a pantomime of surprise.

“Ouch! It stung me!”

“Bzz?” Said Shifty, head tilted at an inhuman 100-degree angle. His little face forming the hint of a frown.

The song continued anyway.

_“I'm squishin’ up my baby bumblebee_

_Won't my Momma be so mad at me?_

_I'm squishin’ up my baby bumblebee.”_

Shifty emitted a high pitched buzz of distress and clapped his cupped ‘bumble bee’ hands to his chest, lunging backwards.

 The noise was almost painful, Ford clapped his hands over his ears, surprised it didn’t shatter any windows.

“Oh boy, I do _not_ think he liked that bee related violence.”  He quipped trying to quell the kicking, buzzing child.

Fidds put the banjo down “Aw, c’mon on now, sugar-cookie, it’s just a song, I didn’t hurt no real bees. Promise.”

Shifty eyed him suspiciously, lower lip stuck out in a pout.

“Bzzz…”

Fidds cupped his hands together and held them out for Shifty to see. “See, son. It’s just a game. I wouldn’t really hurt a critter, honest.”

Shifty nodded slowly, eyes still narrowed.

Fiddleford moved to heft the toddler-shaped alien onto his knee. “Guess you really like bees, huh?”

Shifty nodded.

Stanford chuckled to himself “I dunno why he picked up on it but there was a bee flying around the study earlier.”

“Bzz-Bzzz.” Said Shifty. “Bzz-Bzzzzz- Mreee”

Ford glanced at Fiddleford, trying hard to not to laugh.

“Is that really a song you sing to children?”

The other man shrugged, rubbing Shifty’s back to calm him.

“Don’t see why not, I learnt it in first grade.”

Ford raised an eyebrow. “Arkansas both fascinates and alarms me.”

“Bzz.” Buzzed Shifty, still a little upset.

Fidds smiled. “Stanford sweetheart, d’you mind checking if we have any bee-related books, I think it might cheer this one up some.”

“Course,” He patted the child’s shoulder.  “You wait there, my boy. I’ll see what I can find.”

* * *

 

His mother was coming to visit.

His mother was coming to Oregon, to visit.

His mother was coming to Oregon to visit, in six days, roughly twelve hours forty minutes.

_Here. To Visit. Soon._

Stanford Pines was dealing with this like any well-adjusted young adult did with any unpleasant situation: by not looking directly at it in the hopes it would go away.  Fiddleford, however, seemed to be looking forward to their prospective guests much more than Ford could even comprehend.

This was largely, Ford suspected, because he himself had hardly ever spoke of his folks.  Fiddleford was curious and concerned, as he had every right to be.

And, yeah, so maybe he had done too little to reassure him he was okay.  Constantly referring to aforementioned visit as ‘The Sword of Damocles’ might have been just a little over-dramatic.

They’d been trying to teach Shifty how to maintain his form longer in the hope that they could teach him how to play the part of some small and unsuspicious object while they had guests over.  But Shifty seemed pretty fixated on his current ‘sentient swarm of bees’ persona.  Which, while odd and infuriating, was still remarkably better than say, a swarm of _locusts._

He was also getting better at trying different human ages, though he was currently only using his English skills to ask questions.  Or rather, one specific question.

_‘Why?’_

This got frustrating very quickly. More frustrating than the bees.

To top everything off, Ford’s brain had decided to metaphorically punch him in the kidney by sending him into a hypomanic tailspin, which he very much _did not need._

It was times like these he realised he was so unreservedly grateful to have Fiddleford as a partner. Fidds was a ballast pulling him down when the only sensation he could process was ‘fast’. He never felt like he was a burden in Fiddleford’s eyes, even when he was one in his own. Even in the bad patches, when Ford felt like he was travelling with nitrous boosters on, the other man’s efforts meant that everything still moved smooth and usual in their house.

The truth was, Stanford Pines had never been the type for romance.  Growing up he had admired other boys, sure - maybe even harboured a crush or two.  But he didn't have the time or interest in actual romantic pursuits, not to mention… he didn't really mesh right with other people. He had spent his childhood at his brother’s side, then his young adulthood in his shadow. There were few friends Ford felt he had really made a connection with, fewer still who remained in contact.

It had to be Fiddleford, if it had to be anyone at all. It was a fundamental fact, there was no one else he could conceivably ever be with. Love wasn't this this intangible nebulous fug of emotion he'd seen it constantly romanticised as being. It wasn’t - some astrology-laden bullshit from his mother's tarot cards, all stars and clouds and gossamer.

Stanford was a scientist, and to him, love was numbers, dates, constants - rote facts and research, residing real and reassuring in his memory whenever he needed them. It was Avogadro's number and the capital of Brazil, his mother's birthday and the laws of thermodynamics.  It was Fiddleford.

Yes, there were all the neurotransmitters and hormones: oxytocin, dopamine, so on, so forth.  But those were fleeting and insignificant, their chemical footprint was washed away with the tide as the months rolled by and leaving no mark behind. 

But love? Love was filled-in prescription slips just as he realised the bottle was empty, it was post-it note reminders to go to sleep, dog-eared encyclopaedias, and Newtons 3rd Law. It was social security numbers, taxes and routine. It was finally getting a full night's sleep like a functioning human being. I

Love was a long-since memorised declension of nouns:

_*Amor, Amoris,  Amori-_

A bell curve, a sine wave, a standard deviation.

_\- Amorem, Amore, Amor._

It was hot coffee and remembering to eat, it was nature trails and being talked through a psychotic episode. Validation, reassurance. _This is real, Stanford. You are real and you are loved, loved, loved_.

He loved and was _in love with_ Fiddleford. The verbs were similar but not synonymous. It was a practical platonic kind of love: dependable and grown up and even dull sometimes, but without Fidds? Ford would float up and away into the intangible theoretical.

Without Fidds, to weigh him down he’d end up dead in a ditch somewhere. It wasn’t a fact he acknowledged often (no, he much preferred being the paragon of logic and science he’d built up over the years to put himself at ease, the one that he couldn’t really be.)  But Ford’s co-dependency issues remained whether or not he acknowledged them.

 His brother had left him sheared in twain. Pretending not to see the holes would not stop this ship from sinking.

 

* * *

 

Ford was tired.  He had managed to trip going up the stairs at least twice, and he felt like gravity was increasing on him by the step.

His bedroom was already well darkened, and he walked into the bed post trying to grope his way around the darkness. He needed to sleep so bad that it felt like his grey matter was melting.  Soon, he was sure, he’d be able to hear his brains sloshing about.

He felt his side of the mattress to find the covers to pull back, but his hand met something soft – as his eyes started to adjust to the dark, he made out the shape of his partner’s arm.

“Hey, Fiddleford?”

From the depths of sleep Fiddleford roused briefly. “Ngh.”

Ford smiled despite his state.  “Fidds, Fiddsy.” He hissed again.

“Mmh?” An eye cracked open “Whassitnow?”

“Scoot over, a bit. You’re taking up my side.”

Fiddleford shuffled over, turned on the bedside lamp, and rubbed at his face, propping himself up on an elbow. He squinted at the digital clock without his glasses and had to do a double-take.

“Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat, Stanford, it’s twenty to five in the mornin’ are you _just_ comin t’bed?”

Ford’s brain wasn’t listening, it had powered on ahead and was now trying to come up with potential future trials they could use to properly quantify Shifty’s grasp of logical reasoning. Chess was rather systematic, and he felt the rules and moves could easily just be memorised and replicated, he needed something more expressive, not the same rote things over and over. What would young Ford have liked to play with his own father…

“Hey. Ground control t’Major Tom, you alive in there Stanford?”

His boyfriend was gawking at him, eyes half-open. _Oh yeah, bed_. He was supposed to be going to bed. “Oh-Mmhm, I’m comin’, sorry I was busy.”

“Doin’ what and why can’t it wait til a respectable hour?”

“Shifty and I were playing chess, for a bit, he’s getting the hang of things he had me in check twice and then I had to-check-had to check- had to check- had me in check-check-check-“

“ _Stanford_ …” Fidds sat up and reached a hand out towards him.

He shook his head as if to physically rid himself of the block, his synapses were firing at lightning speeds. The manic flow of his thoughts rendering them almost instant, only enough time for him to acknowledge them before they disappeared again, this meant the all the things he wanted to say reached his mouth simultaneously, causing an articulatory bottleneck.

“In his human form Shifty currently has the motor skills of the average eight-year-old. If he so wanted he could easily blend in with other human children once he learns to shift a more stable speech system, he’s a very intelligent kid but I do worry about his social development? Does teaching him to trust other humans set him up to be endangered? That’s surely not our intention….”

“Ford…”

“Do you think we’re getting to attached to an experiment, Fiddleford? I mean, I don’t even like to _call_ him that It feels dehumanising…de-alienating?... that’s not the right word…. What was I saying again?”

 “ _Sweetheart._ ” Fiddleford groaned, falling back against the mattress.

Ford managed to wrestle his brain still long to follow the conversation. “Hm?”

 “You’re buzzin’ about the place. Take a Haldol, take ya shirt and glasses off and come t’bed. Then you can tell me what’s wrong.”

“Oh. Right.” He froze, train of thought well and truly hijacked like in an old heist film. “Hang on”

Impulses and thoughts came to him in waves upon waves upon waves. He had to concentrate long and hard before actual directions broke through like a telegraph through radio static, in staccato stops and starts.

_Take medication STOP_

_in the beside drawer STOP_

_Take with water STOP_

_Go to bed, and go to sleep STOP_

_Take your shirt off STOP_

_And your slippers too STOP_

He didn't remember the intermediate steps but they must have occurred because all of a sudden he was under the covers in just his t-shirt and boxers. Fidds sighed, snuggling up beside him.

“Lord, some nights, it’s like I’m sleepin’ with a hummingbird.”  

Ford shifted his arm to make room for the other man. “Right. Hi. What was I saying?”

“Many things at once.” His boyfriend said. He rolled over on his side to face Ford only to burst into a fond peal of laughter.  “Ford honey, your glasses are still on.”

“What?” Fiddleford reached over and pulled the frames off Ford’s face and handed them back for him to put on his bedside table.

“Oh,” said Ford, smiling at his own oversight.

Fiddleford’s hair was all mussed and curled it flopped in his eyes and fanned out behind him over the pillow case. Up close Ford could see every hair, every single sandy strand fine and delicate. It brought up a very vivid memory of the fine golden wire they used to use in college labs as solder to join together certain types of circuitry. 

He brushed a golden lock away so he could see his face. Breaking the perfectly circular loop of one ringlet. Ford smiled.

Filddleford was watching him without a sound. “Watcha doing?” he asked finally.

“Breakin’ the circuit.” Ford mumbled. He felt the sedatives start to cloud his consciousness before the physical effect kicked in. The distance between thought A and thought B stretched out until his train of thought was more a series of isolated stations.

What was he even thinking about? Something… to do with – damn, what was it? Circuit boards? The world was weighted down with a blanket of sleepy… heavy… something that his brain refused to provide the words to. His mouth felt like sheep’s wool.

Fidds blinked blearily, lips curving up lopsided. “What?”

 _Pretty!_ Sedated Ford’s Neolithic subconscious pointed out. He ignored it.

“Your hair… it’s like - gold electrical wire, and it was all coiled up over your face -”

That got a smile. “Oh my.  Electric wire? You sure know how to romance a fella.”

“Sorry, I’m a hypomanic mess…I’m overthinkin’ so much I’m burning holes in this cerebral shit storm.” He rapped a knuckle to his temple, the movement felt super slowed as if his entire body was suspended in agar in a cosmic Petri dish but his brain still raced ahead sloughing his way through.

Fidds pulled his hand away from his head and held on to it. An anchor.

“What's botherin’ you, sweetheart? Haven’t seen you this riled up in a good while.”

“It’s inconsequential.” Ford said, his lips growing unwieldy as his medication became too much to keep fighting “It’s a damn infantile thing for a grown man to be worryin’ ‘bout.”

Fiddleford smiled, patient and kind. “Tell me anyway.”

“Very well. I’m - I’m thinking about coming out to my Ma when she comes to visit. Telling her-about me- about us. I mean your family already knows and they were nothin’ but delightful to me. I just- think… I think it’s time.”

“Oh.” Said Fiddleford softly, the sound reverbed through his Adam’s apple and chest. “That ain’t stupid at all. It’s…It’s just... _Well_ …”

Thoughts were ricocheting every which way in the pinball machine inside Ford’s skull. One thought, rose above the torrential noise and the anaesthetic haze.

_If I could marry this man right this very second, I would._

_***_

_(“Why do people get married anyway?” Six-year-old Ford asked watching his mother at the kitchen table pouring over glossy photos of Grace Kelly’s wedding to the Prince of Monaco._

_“They hafta-.” Said Stanley, in the tone of voice that implied he was the number one expert on the matter, despite being the exact same age as his brother and having read much less._

_“Huh?” Ford gave his twin a confused look._

_“-You gotta get married if you wanna have babies.” Stanley stated, completely serious._

_Opal Pines let out one of those guffaws that she did whenever her sons said something downright ridiculous, the ones where some of the air got stuck up her nose and she’d start snorting._

_“Oh baby, baby, bubby boy.” She pinched Stanley cheek and ruffled both twins’ hair. “That’s not why people get married.” She paused and pursed her lips.  “Well, not the only reason anyway.”_

_“Then Why, Ma? It’s just like a big expensive party for being stuck with someone forever” Ford chimed in looking at the foldout out photograph of huge meringue-like white dresses and overly extravagant dress uniforms of foreign militaries._

_Stan nodded little fists clenching in emphasis. “Yeah, me and Ford already got that for free!”_

_Their mother laughed again and shook her long dark hair. “People get married because they love each other and they don’t wanna live without each other no more. Don’t let your Pops and your uncles fool you, boys. Being in a relationship is a wonderful thing, it’s like you get ta have a sleepover with your favourite person in the whole world, every night.”_ )

***

They memory faded and his brain started to slow down long enough for Stanford to follow the conversation they’d been having the present. He wriggled out from under his chin to look at his partner’s face.

 “Well?” he repeated. “Is that a good ‘Well’ or the bad kind?”

 Fidds smiled, a little sad, a little sleepy. “Bit of both, to be honest. It’s your decision, Ford, an intensely personal one at that. I’ll support ya either way but I can’t tell you what to do. I don’t know your folks from a hole in the ground.”

That was what he’d expected Fidds to say more or less but it didn’t make it less frustrating for Ford to hear. He wanted directions, formulae, a list of what to say and how to say it.

“What about your experience? How’d you tell your family?”

Fiddleford adjusted his head against the pillows. “Me? Well, I think I told Maggie first, ‘Cause I used to tell her everythin’. Still do.”

 Ford smiled drowsily; Magnolia McGucket was a 6’ft 2’ Amazonian warrior of a woman. She could have been the inspiration for Wonder Woman if Wonder Woman had been a butch pilot with a Southern drawl and a penchant for fixing ham radios. She was certainly a force to be reckoned with and she adored her baby brother with an unwavering ferocity that Ford had come to respect.

Fidds kept talking. “I don’t remember what I said… something along the lines of ‘Hey Mags, whadda I do if like boys in the same way I like girls?’ She went quiet for a bit…think I was scared she’d run tell Momma but after a while she said ‘Ya mean you’re bisexual?’ -And I mean this was Arkansas in sixty-something I didn’t even know there was a _word_. I thought it meant there was something gone wrong in my head, but Maggie just hugged me real tight and said ‘Ain’t nothing wrong with you Fiddleford. I love ya like the cat loves the cream jar. Nothin’s changed.’"

He paused. "Course I didn’t find out til a few months down the line that she was gay herself. I came out at 17, in solidarity almost, after Maggie brought home her first real lady-friend to dinner. I don’t think our Momma knew how to take it, probably thought there was somethin’ in the water. I mean she loves us no different for it, but y’know…” He sighed, his breath tangible on Ford’s face.

Ford didn’t’ have the words big enough to respond. Everything was sleepy and warm and he couldn’t quite get his lips and tongue to do the thing…with the words…the talking thing.

What did he say to that without making a total dick of himself?

 _‘I understand?’_ No, too dismissive _._

 _‘I know what you mean?_ ’ Felt like he was making things all about himself.

  _‘I’m sorry?’_ Fiddleford hated it when he apologized for things that weren’t his fault.

Instead he just flopped forward, burying his face in the crook of Fidds’ neck and shoulder and wrapping him up in a bear hug grip. The other man kissed his hair before resuming talking.

“It’s less easy for her unlearn some things she’s been raised on…. “His voice was measured, a little scratchy from sleep, but there was a very quiet _Something_ to his tone. Ford doubted it would be discernible to the casual eavesdropper but he heard it, the extra length between pauses, the way Fidds clipped his slack Southern vowels short, and dropped his r’s. An accentual buzz cut. “-She’s of a _different generation_ and all.”

Ford nodded against him, Fidds’ arms moved tighter around his middle. He didn’t need to hear what Fidds meant by that; he’d been living deep down inside it for days now. His brain was still in a centrifugal spin; conjuring up a snippet of memory, no images, just the sound of Stanley’s adolescent voice.

 ‘ _Don’t see why they gotta hate people for who and how they’re born. Listen t’me Ford, they’re full of shit all of ‘em. Ya know that right? They don’t gotta justify themselves to the world so neither should we. Screw ‘em.’_

“How did your Ma take it?” Ford asked after a while. His eyelids were so heavy he kept letting them close then thinking better of it and prying them awake again.

 Fiddleford hesitated. “I think she was in shock for a bit, but I mean the munchkins were at the table she wasn’t exactly gonna have a conniption fit in front of them.”

Ford nodded, ‘The Munchkins’ was the collective pet name for Fidds’ younger sisters, the quadruplets: Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme, the babies of the family. There was a good fifteen years’ difference between Maggie (the oldest child) and the quads, who were all currently still in high school. Much like the age difference between Ford and his own sister.

“And your Dad?”

Mr McGucket, was both eerily close to Ford’s own father in some respects and completely opposite on others. Both were quiet, moral men, from religious families. They didn’t like to use many words when one would suffice. Fiddleford’s father been in the war too in his youth, and like Filbrick Pines, Newt McGucket was discharged due to injury. Where Ford’s Pop had lost the use of one eye, Newt had lost an arm and damaged his hip enough to need a cane.

That was more or less where the similarities ended though.

Newt McGucket loved every single one of his ten kids and he didn’t care who knew it.  Filbrick Pines… _Yeah, not so much._

“Dunno. Don’t really bother him, I reckon. He says God don’t make mistakes so the way that I am is the way I’m meant to be and he’d never given me any reason to think otherwise. Plus, I heard him introduce Sharon as his daughter-in-law last time her and Mags came down to the farm. So that seems pretty positive, right?”

Ford nodded against his chest, fingers in the other man’s hair.

Seeing as most of the locals in town who didn’t know Stanford Pines as the local mad scientist referred to Ford as Fiddleford’s ‘friend’ with the right head nod and vocal scare quotes to get the point across (and here Ford had thought they were _subtle_ ) to the point that in that context Fiddleford’s name felt near synonymous with the illustrious Dorothy.

It didn’t come from a place of malevolence either- Gravity Falls in all its diverse oddity welcomed all with open arms- which made the whole thing all that more vexing.  Any effort to normalise a relationship like theirs still felt ground-breaking.  Fidds was right to treat the gesture as the olive branch his father likely intended.

 

* * *

 

They’d been dithering around the kitchen together for the last hour or so just doing last minute dishes and spot cleaning.

Ford was pacing restlessly like a racehorse at the gate, he could feel Fiddleford starting to bristle at the constant, _step-tap-step-tap-step,_ of his shoes on the linoleum.

He paused mid-pace. “I’m sorry if I’m making you anxious, you’ll tell me right? If I’m making you anxious, I-I’ll go sit in the other room.”

Fidds looked up from the kitchen sink and smiled, all soft and wonderful. He shook his head. “Thanks for caring, sugar, but I’m fine. I lit’rally took a chill pill, maybe you should too. I- Ford are you puttin’ that plate away or do you need to hang onto it fer somethin’?

Ford looked down at the dinner plate he’d picked up at some point mid-panic and failed to do anything with. “Oh-Uh- No, you can have it.” He passed it back.

“I just I wouldn’t want to make you worse! I’m _always_ a mess, I can live with it. I’d never want my problems to hurt you’ like that Fidds.”

 “Sweet Lord, I’ve heard enough o’ that talk. Siddown and Shuddup, a second.” Fiddleford said, sharply. Ford folded his arms across his chest like a petulant child. “I’m not a dog, you know, you don’t need to bark at me.”

Fiddleford made a throaty noise of frustration.  “Look, I can see that you’re upset, darlin', but I’m pretty sure psychin’ yourself up for no big reason.”

Ford clicked his jaw. “Well, I certainly can’t speak for you Fiddleford, but the ever-looming burden of familial exile is _kind of_ a big issue for me.” Ford’s words came out harsher than intended, but Fidds- Literal Saint Fiddleford McGucket- didn’t even flinch at the venom. He just nodded a concession.

“’Kay Yeah, you’re right there. It’s just- I dunno… I just can’t see your mother doing that while she’s a guest in your home. The dynamic’s different here, I reckon? With your sister there and everythin’…Would she really do that to the kid? I mean I’ve never met her so I can’t rightly say but- As you’ve already pointed out I know a lot 'bout anxiety and overthinkin’ and I can tell that you’re doin’ it right now.”

Ford sat down on a stool with a tired sigh, the reminder he wasn’t the only one here with issues was enough to dropkick him back into reality.

“Yeah,” He said with an awkward clearing of his throat. “I’m sorry, Fiddleford. You’re as right as always.  At least I hope so anyway.”

Fidds wiped his hands dry on a dish towel and moved over towards the other man. He placed a gentle hand on each of Ford’s shoulders and, suddenly gravely serious, he spoke.

“Look just think about it this way, you’re only in control of you, Ford. You can’t take responsibility  for decisions you didn’t make. Anything bad like that goes down with your Ma? That’s not on you, okay? That's on her.”

Ford didn’t reply, his knee already beginning to bob up and down. This was the worst idea, inviting them here. He was so stu-

A noise in the drive way drew both men’s attention. Ford gazed through the kitchen window.

“That’s them…” He said, more to himself than to Fiddleford.  “-A Taxi cab, yeah I think it is." He groaned running fingers through his hair. "Oh god- I think that’s them, quick!  You still have time to knock me out cold so I don’t have to deal with this.”

“Stanford…” Fidds drawled, rolling his eyes, amused. “Don’t be like that, It’ll be fine! Look, I put the baby gate up in the Study, Shifty’s got books and toys so he’ll be fine. I’m right here with you remember. Whatever happens, I’m right here.”

He straightened Ford’s collar and smoothed down the lapel of his jacket, then with his hands on the other man’s hips he pulled him forward out of sight of the windows and he French dipped him into a quick but passionate kiss.

Righting himself, Ford pushed his glasses up his nose, a little dazed, a lot impressed. “Well shit, Fiddleford, what were you saving that one up for?”

The other man turned back over his shoulder and smirked “A special occasion. C’mon, let’s not keep our guests waiting.”

Ford hesitated by the front door. “Fidds, um… you know what we talked about before -”

“I know, Stanford.  We’re, ah, _just Friends_. I can play that tune just fine. We did all through college.”

“…Indeed we did.” Ford’s eyes slid to the floor. "Just ah- two- men being _friends_ , right?"

"Guys bein' dudes." Fiddleford tittered back.

 Stanford Pines had definitely not spent most of his undergraduate degree in love with his assumed straight roommate, that was certainly not something that had happened for years.... that would be preposterous. Whoever would suggest such a thing?  

He opened the front door and moved towards the taxi parked in the driveway.

The sound of his mother’s high heels against gravel was overwhelmingly recognisable. 

“Ford!” Something small, brown-haired, and very fast barrelled into his hip.

“Oof!” He staggered back, a little girl with messy curls and a wild look in her eye threw her arms around his waist.

“Ah - Shermy? Is that you?” He patted the girl on the head, a little awkward.

“Ya got any other sisters, baby?” Opal Pines moved to stand behind her daughter pausing to drop her cigarette butt on the ground and crush it with a burgundy heel.

She gave her youngest child, a look of displeasure.

“Sherm, let ‘im go.  Hug him any tighter, and ya gonna cut off his circulation.”

His sister grudgingly released him, Ford crouched down to her level to hug her back.

“You got so big I almost didn’t recognise ya.” He said, softly.  _That’s because you never go home, knucklehead,_ he thought to himself, in a voice both deep and uncomfortably familiar. _Don’t blame her for a problem you created._

His sister beamed.  “I went up two whole shoe sizes since last year! I had to get new shoes cuz’ I don’t fit cousin Sarah’s no more.”

“Oh really?” Ford didn’t know what to say to that but he remembered a similar frustration at her age of constantly getting stuck with his cousin’s dorky old hand-me-downs. He could definitely relate. “Wow, Sherm!”

Opal Pines let out a snort of derision. “ _Yeah_ , ‘ _Wow’_ , if you think that’s so amazin’, then _you_ can pay for them.” His mother muttered idly, brushing ash from a fold in her dress.

He saw Fiddleford in the corner of his vision, squirming at the perceived hostility. Ford’s face split into a grin.

Oh sweet Fidds, he’d signed up for the Pines Family Theatre with no idea what he was in for.  The poor man.

He turned his attention to his mother who was standing in front of him, expectant.

“Hey Mom.” He said, stepping forward to embrace her and kiss her once on the cheek. It was like embracing a stick insect, particularly a stick insect that had doused itself in a strong rose perfume to cover the stench of cigarettes and gin.

Opal squeezed him back, hard. “Hello, Fordy. I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too, both of you.” There was an awkward pregnant pause. “Uhm - and Pops too, of course,” he finished lamely.

“Let me help you with your bags, Mrs Pines.” Fiddleford said, Southern Hospitality kicking in in full swing.

Opal smiled. “Oh, thank ya very much, aren’t you a gentleman.”

“Mom, this is my friend and research partner, Fiddleford McGucket. Fidds, my Ma, Opal Pines, and that’s my kid sister, Sherm.” Both parties knew these things so the introduction was largely for show, but Ford still felt it necessary.

“Is that your _real_ name?” Shermy asked Fiddleford, looking the man up and down.

Ford snickered, _Ah yes_ , he remembered why he liked this kid so much.

“Shermaine Bathsheba Pines!” her mother snapped, lightly clipping the girl on the upside of her head.

“What? I’m just askin’ Ma, ain’t no law against askin’ now, that’s the first amendment. Pops told me about that.”

Opal Pines and her son exchanged a look. Ford resisting the rising pressure in his chest and the urge to break into uncontrollable hysterics.

 _Typical_ , that was so fucking Filbrick Pines to teach his kid the constitution before she’d barely grasped the alphabet. 

Opal smacked her red lips together. Ford shuddered.

“Yeah, _well,_ I’m sure your father would still want you to use your manners anyway. Sorry Mr McGucket, Shermy, _say sorry_.”

Shermy said no such thing, merely screwed her little face up in protest.

“No, need Mrs Pines. No harm done, he winked at Shermy. “It is my real name though, the very name my Momma gave me, in fact.’”

Shermy hesitated. “Fid-ill-fed?” she tested each syllable like she was tasting how it sounded.

Fidds grinned “That’s the ticket! You can call me Fidds though if it’s too hard a tongue twister.”

His expression was so goofy and sweet, Stanford had to look somewhere else.

 _I know, Ford._   He thought to himself sulkily, _try staring off into the distance for any vestigial traces of your heterosexuality._ _Oh, wait.  Nope, there’s nothing._

“Okay, Mr Fidds,” said Shermy with a nod.  Fiddleford looked like he’d just been given the moon from the sky. 

* * *

Everything had been going smoothly.  They’d shown Opal and Shermy the guest room and put their bags away, now they were back down in the living room, slowly shedding the exoskeleton of conversational awkwardness and slowly starting to chat like normal people, rather than soldiers navigating a minefield.

Of course, it was going far _too well_.

“Stanford.” His mother interrupted the flow of small talk, her voice had lost some of its artificial cheer and turned flat with concern. “Why is there a baby in the corridor?”

He followed her gaze to the doorway and his gut dropped through the floor.

There was indeed a baby in his corridor.

_Shifty. Shit. Shit. Shit. What the fucking shit._

What he actually said was: “Oh my word!  Fiddleford! I thought you closed the gate after you put him down?”

His boyfriend chuckled uncomfortably, “It’s a wooden baby gate, Ford. Not exactly the Great Wall of China.”

“C’mere now, creepy crawler. Fixin’ to be a proper escape artist now aren’t ya?” Fiddleford picked up the wriggling child and held him to his hip. The baby in question showed no obvious signs of being anything other than a bouncy baby boy. Somewhere between nine months to a year, but not yet old enough to speak.  But Ford knew better.

“Oh, is this your son Mr Fiddleford?” Opal asked dangerously, voice deceptively casual. _What was she thinking about? What was she plotting?_

Fidds looked Stanford in the eyes.  He seemed to have shrunk in stature –and that was really saying something, seeing how Maggie McGucket had once described her little brother as “a wheat sheaf in a labcoat.”  Here he was staring at him, a hurt look in those cornflower eyes, as if to say, ‘Stanford Pines I will happily lie for you, die for you, risk my life's work for you even - but as soon as innocent people get involved, I have to stand up and express my discomfort.’

It was a matter of nanoseconds in actuality, but it felt like an entire feature-length film had played out between them.

“Y’mean, lil Shifty here?” Fidds began uneasily.   “Uh-”

“No, he’s not…” Ford finished for him. “Not exactly…”

Opal frowned, fine lines creating branches across her brow, “What’s he doing here then? I hope you keep your work area locked. A science lab is no place for a child.”

Ford shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose, frustrated. “Well, I'm sorry but we didn’t exactly _plan_ for there to be a child here, Mother.” He said.

“Ford.” Fiddleford’s tone had an edge to it, a warning. He knew what he was concerned about. The more people who knew about Shifty’s true identity the more danger for both the people and Shifty. The government threat was a real and constant danger to Shifty and all concerned with him, he didn't want to endanger his mother she'd suffered enough.

“Whassat s’posed to mean?” Her eyes narrowed. “Who’s baby is this Stanford. Where’s his parents?”

Many people in history had had terrible ideas before: Napoleon invading Russia in the Winter was a terrible idea, as was the Great Australian Emu War of 1932, and the under-stocking of the Titanic’s lifeboats, assassinating Archduke Ferdinand. All pretty terrible ideas historically.

 “He’s your grandson.” Said Ford.  His mother made a soft unpleasant noise like a tire deflating.  He saw real, raw pain in her expression and the sense of regret went through the roof.

Ford’s own internal monologue was already railing on him; his head was encased in screaming TV static.

 _Well on a scale of fuck ups, Stanford, that was monumental._ He thought to himself as every pretence of honour left his body.

**Terrible. Idea.**

_((Why did you say that ya knucklehead? Why would you do such a thing to a grieving woman?))_

_I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know, Stanley, leave me alone! I just wanted it to have something normal in my life just for once. A normal human reason for a normal human family._

Shifty deserved that kind of constancy in his life, be he human or not.

“Where’s his mother? Who’s his mother at that rate?”

“I don’t know; I don’t know anything about her.” Ford said, grateful that part wasn’t technically a lie.

His mother laughed bitterly. “Honey, I wasn’t born yesterday, you sure as hell had to have ‘known’ her _, biblically_.”  

Maybe Ford was getting petty under the pressure but he stared back at his mother and all he could think of was how her pursed red lips kind of reminded of a baboon's ass.

“What?” He looked at Fidds confused and fed up. “What?” He said again.

“Sex, Ford.” The other man whispered with a sigh. Ford fought the urge to gag.

_Oh yikes, No. She couldn’t get farther away from the truth if she started running._

 Ford palmed his face hard, knocking his glasses down his nose. “Oh my God, Mother. No!”

Opal was staring at him with one dark brow arched, she was just milliseconds away from doing that lip smack of annoyance that Ford viscerally detested.

 “You’re a twenty-three-year-old man with a PhD in astrophysics do I really hafta tell you how babies are made?”

“ _No, Ma_. Please, No. Look, you’ve got things all wrong. He’s not- I mean I’m not-“

Stan’s voice in his head again: _Don’t say what’s you’re thinking, Sixer, don’t you fuckin dare._

 “He’s my _nephew_ , my nephew and your grandson.”

 _Oh my_ God, _you weapons-grade dumbbell._

Fidds looked like Stanford had just run the woman through with a knife. He was quite obviously struggling to hide the shock. Thankfully, Opal Pines was too distracted to notice.  Her jaw clicked square. She turned her face to speak back over her shoulder.

“Shermaine, baby, _cover your ears_.” 

His little sister looked up from her picture Atlas and rolled her eyes, a mirror of her mother. But she still did as she was told.

“Stanford Filbrick Pines, you have five seconds to explain just what the _star-spangled fuck_ is going on here?”

Ford began to crack his knuckles in the hand at his side.  He reached out to pull a golden hair off little baby Shifty’s shoulder.  The child’s skin was abnormally cold, for a human at least, about normal for a shapeshifting alien.

 “You can fill in the blanks for yourself, can’t you? You’ve only got one other kid my age.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were in touch? Where’s Stanley? How do I see him? Is he okay?”

  
Ford sighed. “Ma….”

Fiddleford was staring at him eyes big and sad and copper sulfate blue. There was something deeply _unhappy i_ n his expression.  He didn't do well with conflict. He cared too much about other people, Ford didn’t deserve someone so genuinely good. He kept thinking one day he’d wake up to find Fidds had been a cruel hallucination Ford’s sick brain had cooked up all along just to stop him from being alone.   

“Mrs Pines...” Fiddleford put a gentle hand on the woman's shoulder.  She turned to look at him with glossy eyes. Some of her anger evaporating, leaving behind raw hurt, a near-healed scab ripped open.

_You did this, Ford. All on your lonesome, the blood is on your big dumb six-fingered hands._

“Can I take my hands off my ears yet, Ma?” Whined Shermy. Ford had almost forgotten the girl was there.

“Yes, baby, you can. Go play in the corner with your toys or something, the adults needa talk. “

“Ford and I-W-we just found the kid one morning...” He noticed how Fidds carefully chose his words to avoid actually having to lie. He didn’t know the Pines family well enough to know that lying to each other was the thing they did best; it was practically a form of affection at this point.

Ford jumped into to relieve him of the burden. “He left the kid here on the doorstep, I haven’t even spoken to him in years. There was a note just said: _Hey Sixer, meet your nephew. Treat him well, he deserves better than I can give him_.”

Opal covered her mouth with her hand.  Ford wasn’t sure if he was hearing things or if she really had whispered something soft in Hebrew he couldn’t quite make out.

“I’m a grandma?” she said, as if the words were a foreign language on her lips.

Ford nodded. He didn’t believe in a Hell but he at this point he didn’t think it mattered they make a special one just for him.

 “What’s his name?” his mother asked.

Fiddleford gave Ford _a Look._

“We don’t know; we’ve been calling him Shifty as a nickname…until we find out his real name.”

“Or y’know failin’ that, settled on something more appropriate.” Fidds said softly. Opal raised an eyebrow in his direction “Stanford thinks Mitochondria would be a pretty girl’s name.” He added in a conspiratorial stage whisper.  

Opal snorted with laughter, the braying laugh, Stan used to say made her sound like a racehorse.

“Oh Ford, darlin’.” She cackled “You're as bad as your father”

Stanford winced, she didn't mean it like that but the words still hurt.  He tried to lighten the mood.

“Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, you don't get to say anythin’ about ridiculous names.”

He grinned, “Yeah well, best to take my family as a guide on how _not_ to name your kids. Bless ‘em”

Shifty was starting to twitch and wriggle, making a few soft alien noises of discomfort.

Ford patted the baby’s soft head, that was covered in something that didn’t feel entirely like human skin. “D’you wanna put him down in his-uh- crib, again Fidds or should I?”

“I don’t mind, Ford.” He said, readjusting the wriggling child. He placed a reassuring hand on Ford’s shoulder. “I can do it.”

Ford tensed up under the contact.

Wow, _not suspicious at all Stanford._

His mother was watching him, calculating but concerned. “Are you okay, bubby?”

“Just tired, Ma.” He chuckled, hollow. Why, when he knew he couldn’t lie his way out of a paper bag did he get himself into this mess. “Kids, y’know. Didn’t give you and Pops as near as much credit as you deserved.”

She chuckled at that, “Ha! You think one’s hard work. I had it in stereo!”

He smiled but his heart wasn’t in it. “I, uh yeah. I guess you did.”

His mother didn’t look much better than he felt, she was folding in on herself like a pancake.

“Why would he do this Ford? Why just ding dong ditch the kid?”

“I don’t know. And why me?”

Opal harrumphed, arms folded across her chest. “Cause he adores you Stanford, always has. No matter…what happened…He’s still Stanley.”

**_Oh._ **

That sucker punch to the chest sent him reeling. However, Ford stilled managed to pull himself together enough to actually do something, steering his mother towards the dining area.

“Let’s sit down, shall we? I’ll put some coffee on-  I’m sure you’ve got questions I’ll do my best to answer them.”

* * *

 

A few hours wiled away, Ford trying to string together a cohesive narrative for his fake nephew, and Opal just genuinely enjoying filling him in on the Glass Shard Beach gossip. Fiddleford popped into the conversation every so often, but the pressure in Ford’s chest began too become to much to keep ignoring.

He could only lie about so much, and the confession he had been fretting about for nearly two weeks now was staring to corrode at his tongue.

He took the next natural lull in conversation as his chance.

 “Um… Mom…I needa tell you somethin’…”

His eyes slid to Fidds, drawing strength from his presence the way one more religious than Ford himself might draw strength from an icon.

Opal Pines looked up from dangling her red-taloned fingers in her grandson’s face.

“What’s wrong hon? Is this about the little one?”

“No, Ma.” “It’s about me… It’s, uh, something I didn’t wanna tell you over the phone.” _Don’t look at Fidds again, don’t be obvious._ “Can we talk outside a second?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “Well, Sure. Fiddleford, honey. You don’t mind watchin’ the kids a while, do ya?”

“Not at all, Mrs Pines. My pleasure. Shifty and lil Sherm seem to be getting on like a house on fire.”

Opal smiled, Ford caught her watching Shermy explaining the milky way with a practiced teacher voice to her gurgling baby nephew. She nodded and rose to follow her sun outside.

“What’s wrong, Fordy? Are you sick? You’ve been taking your medication right?”

“Yeah, Ma. I’m fine. Good actually, never been better. Gravity Falls has been the best thing to ever happen to me.” _But_ \- the next clause hung in the air conjunction-less and heavy.

_Mom I’m—_

What word could he use? The most common words were awful prerogatives he wouldn’t dare utter in present company, let alone use to refer to himself.  But if he didn’t, would she even know what he meant? Would she recoil in disgust?  Would she cry or spit and swear? The kids were out of earshot. but they’d see it if she lost her cool. How would she explain it to Shermaine? How many snake-tongued slurs would it take until his baby sister saw him as something to fear or deride? Would he ever see her again?

And… how would he explain the whole debacle to Shifty? The kid hadn’t quite gotten his head around human anthropological concepts like religion or race or languages. The mere notion of gender had upset him so much it had taken a full month of “whys” until he seemed to finally grasp the subject. How did he introduce him to this? He could practically hear that conversation playing out.

_‘You see, Shifty; some human societies frown on same-gender relationships.’_

_‘Why?’_

_‘Well…because they believe it is unnatural.’_

_‘Why?’_

_‘Because they subscribe to a flawed binary model of sex founded on assumed chromosomal and anatomical arrangements, and that model implies two adults of the_ _‘same sex_ _’ can’t procreate. ‘_

_‘Is your species in danger of extinction? ‘_

_‘No, we’re not. Quite the opposite.’_

_‘Then why is there a problem?’_

_‘I- I don’t know, Shifty… I think they’re scared.’_

_‘Scared of you? Why? Are you above them in your planet’s food chain?’_

_‘No, it’s more that they don’t understand us. Humans don’t cope well with deviations from the norm. Unless mutations serve a purpose humans treat them with scorn and caution…. Because- because they can’t understand them.’_

_Then why don’t you help them understand?_

“I can’t…” Ford said, his stomach dropping through the floor when he realised he’d said that last bit out loud.

 “You can’t what?” His mother was frowning him her lips a severe red line. “C’mon bubby, what’s the matter, you’re white as a corpse. You can tell me things, I’m your mother!”

“Mom… I’m-” He cleared his conveniently blocked throat. “I am - I’m - I mean that is to say that…  I- I-  Fiddleford and I are--“ He shook his head staring at the ground.  “No, I’m coming at this all wrong. “ He looked up, terrified. “I’m sorry Ma- I-I can’t- I can’t do this… I-I-I-”

It was like he’d forgotten how to inhale, how to breathe in and inflate his lungs. He just stood staring off through his mother like she wasn’t even there.

A voice in his head, painfully familiar, kicked in out of nowhere:

_Breathe, Poindexter, your big nerd brain can’t do shit without oxygen._

Breath was suddenly much too hard _. Go away, don’t think of him._ He thought shaking his head over and over while his hands ticked at his side. _Hi-Six? No-no-no-no. Focus on something else, please. Anything else, Stanford. Something easy, something rote and memorised. I don’t know- Fibonacci?_

_0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144,_

_Was he breathing? Was he hyperventilating? He was 23 years old. Was he scared of his mother?_

_233, 377, 610, 987, 1597, 2584, 4181, 6765, 10946_

“Stanford!” _someone was calling him, but he just- Couldn’t- breathe._

 _Human respiratory system, Stanford,_ he thought, as loudly as possible without actual noise. _What do you know?_

The database in his skull ticked over.  It searched through years upon years of lectures and tomes.

_‘Apnea increases the tension of CO2 within the respiratory system, which in turn causes a drop in the blood PH levels._ _CO2 begins to build up in blood and tissues, which can be dangerous in the long term, but eventually the change in PH stimulates the part of the brain controlling autonomous functions which prompts an automatic breathing response that cannot be overcome voluntarily.’_

There was a pressure building in his sinus, building, building. Spots in his eyes past his lenses.

He gasped a sudden lungful of air rushed into his chest leaving him coughing. He put his face in his hands.

Opal Pines stepped towards him, a good deal shorter than her son remembered her being. She stepped into his personal bubble so the pointed toes of her stilettos lined up with the tips of his oxfords. On tip-toes she reached up and placed her hands over the top of her son’s, gently easing them away from his face.

“Fordy.” Her voice was so soft, so fond. Her eyes, the same shade of molasses that he remembered, safe and sweet and warm. Ma, his Ma. She loved him, didn’t she? Said she’d always love him.

“Mom I- I- I’m sorry- I’m- Well- I can explain.”

She shushed him holding up a finger with a red acrylic fingernail pointing up like a switchblade “I know, baby. You and him. I got it. I made the connection. Nothin’ to be sorry for.”

“You _know_? How? How could _you know_?”

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Stanford. I may not be one of your hoity-toity college eggheads but I read people for a livin’, I’ve done it for years. Besides…” She shrugged and one of the straps of her dress slipped down slightly. Her collarbone was visibly white through her skin. Had she always been so skeletal? Or had the past few years taken their toll on her? “I was in love once too, y’know.”

“But I’m not gonna marry a girl and give ya grandkids like you always wanted. I’m not gonna carry on the family name or whatever else it is you and Pops expected of me. I’m sorry.”

Opal snorted. “Well it appears that roguish brother of yours has already got that base covered.”

“Yes… It certainly… seems that way.” He paused. “So you don’t hate me? You’re not going excommunicate me from the family like Dad did with Stanley?”

Opal’s face quivered and slowly she brought her son’s hands up to her carmine lips. Without a word she kissed each of his twelve fingers.

Then she spoke so softly that at first Ford wondered if he was just imagining her speaking at all. “I’m sorry, Fordy.” She squeezed his fingers, staring at their still clenched hands. For the briefest of moments his mother smiled. “ _Mein kleines Wunder_.”** She murmured, then her expression fell once more.

“ _Ich bedaure alles, was ihm vorgefallen ist_ …” The crack in her tone was louder than the words themselves _.  “Ich bedaure es jeden Tag.”* **(Translation Notes at the End)_

He could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard either of his parents speak their native language around him. His Ma had only ever broke out the Deutsch when she was discussing _important matters_ with his Pop or her sisters that she didn’t want the children listening in on.

She’d spoken it more often when the twins were little; in an attempt to keep them embroiled in her family’s culture. Unfortunately, there were a couple of ‘incidents’ at school with both other parents and their hyped up kids full of fear and propaganda. It didn’t take very long for Opal to insist, sadly, they all stick to English in public, just to be safe.  

With that history, it hurt all the more to hear it now, like he’d broken something within her, hit the switch to send her back to her mother tongue.  

It reminded in of something he needed to forget. Seventeen-years-old lying on his bun staring at the glow-in-the dark stars on the ceiling that were probably bordering on too childish for a guy his age. His fist curled remained around the crumpled up brochure. He’d memorised its contents already, pages were a glossy blue and gold. Just hours ago he’d been thinking how magnificent the school colours were, now the combination brought bile to his throat.

Ford remembered lying with the pillow over his head, as his parents’ volleying match deteriorated into a trilingual screaming free-for-all. There was very little dialogue occurring now, it was mostly anger and noise. Ford had put a record on- one of Stanley’s many rock albums- just to drown out his father’s voice. It didn’t work, it still came booming through the walls in furious Polish, while his mothe shrieked back in German with a penetrating falsetto screech, pausing every so often to sob dramatically.  Much fainter, in the background he could hear his baby sister was crying too, left unattended.

He didn’t want to remember that. Frankly, he never wanted to think of that night ever again; he _especia_ lly didn’t want to think of it now.

“**** _Tut mir leid_ , Stanford.” His mother said, she was staring at the gravel of the driveway, a fat tear dripped off her nose onto the stones.

Ford didn’t know where to look. Inside, Fidds had his back to the window busy listening to something little Shermy was saying.

He cleared his throat. “Mom, I’m sorry, but you know I don’t speak German…” Was she mixing them up again? He didn’t think Stanley had known any German either.

“Yeah. I know already, I know.” She tucked some dark hair behind her ear and pulled out a cigarette with the same sleight-of-hand a magician would use to appear a dime. “Fordy, I’m gonna need you to shuddup ‘n listen to your old Ma for a second.”

“I – Okay.” He swallowed, uncertain.

“I love you, I don’t care what you do or who with, as long as you’re happy and healthy. God knows I failed you and Stanley as a mother and I but I’m trying to be better with you and with Shermy. As long as you don’t shut me out of your life or my grandson’s I’ll be happy.”

_Her Grandson’s, oh you’ve fucked it up now. You’re not gonna hear the end of this._

“Thanks, I-  uh…” _Say the words, Ford, Mean the words. It’s the least you can to for her._ He cleared his throat again. “I love you too, Mom. But what are you gonna do about Dad?”

Opal frowned. “What about him?”

“Are you- No. I what I mean is I don’t _want_ you to tell him about this. About Me, about Fidds. Please, Ma. Promise you won't tell him?”

“Hm? Tell him what? That you and your colleague are working on a theory of… what was it, universal anoma-somethin’?” She grinned, crooked and coy, and for a second, she looked the spitting image of his twin,

“Not to diminish your work or nothin’, baby, but I think that sentence alone would put him to sleep. He’s only interested in science when it comes with a price tag. No hard feelings now.”

Ford grinned back. “None taken.  C’mon let’s head inside. It's getting dark out here. Would ya like a coffee? Fidds made a cherry pie the other night and there’s still some in the kitchen.

“Just as well you got yourself a man who can cook, bubby. I was worried I’d have to force-feed you fruit and vegetables every time ya came home to Jersey.”

Ford placed a six-fingered hand over his chest in mock distress. “I can cook!”

Opal Pines brayed with laughter once more as held the door open for her.

“Toast don’t count, Ford, you aren’t foolin’ your own mother!” She snaked her arm around his side as he moved next to her in the living room doorway and squeezed him tight.

“Shh, look.”

In the living room Fidds was sitting on the floor, Shifty crawling all over his legs, reading a storybook, Shermy was hanging off his every word transfixed by this strange Southern man and his wonderfully smooth whiskey voice. Fiddleford let her turn the pages for him and he’d grab the baby by his diaper band as soon as he got too far away from him.

“C’mon Shifty, you’re missin’ the story!” Shermy cried heaving her baby nephew into her lap.

“Watch out for his hands now, sweetpea, sometimes I swear that kiddo’s got claws.”

A soft noise brought Ford back to the present. His mother was trying and failing to keep tears from spilling over her lashes and onto her black kohl waterline. 

“Ma? Ah-Are- Are you okay?” Ford asked, tentative.

“Y-yeah,” she sniffed. “I’m just- I’m just…relieved is all.”

“Relieved?”

“I was worried for you, baby, I worried you’d end up bitter and alone. That you’d turn out like your old man but look at this, you got a family. It ain’t conventional but then you’ve been breaking conventions from day one, haven’t ya?” She laced her fingers through his unconventional ones, to illustrate her point. Ford squeezed her hand back.

Guilt started to seep in through the cracks where he’d otherwise be utterly satisfied.

 _Why did ya hafta go and lie to her Sixer?_ Whined a ghostly voice in his head, it’s diction and tone preserved perfectly, a cognitive fossil. _Why’ve you gotta drag my name even further through the mud than you already have? Total family exile not enough for you?_

Ford Pines stood side by side with his dear old Ma in his own living room, of his own house while his partner, their child and his sister all sat together happily reading. It was a Hallmark Card moment of contented domestic bliss. Ford felt like he had lined his own shoes with concrete. Now he was trying not to drown.

“Are you alright, Stanford?” his mother asked, Fidds looked up as she stepped further into the room, his eyes flitted between Opal and Ford himself and he smiled, an understated slow-burn Fiddleford McGucket beam, like a golden sunrise over the Arkansas River.

Ford’s chest constricted, the familiar warm pull against his ribs. Did he even deserve someone who made him feel this content, this safe? After the stunt he’d pulled today he honestly couldn’t say.

 Shifty waved his hands and let out a soft “Mreeep” to get one of his fathers’ attention, which he quickly transformed into more a human baby sound like “bababa!” Fidds chuckled taking him from Shermy and readjusting the baby’s position on his knee.

Ford took a deep breath, looked his mother in the eye. This was for her own good, for Shifty’s own good. Stanley would probably never find out anyway. Sometimes you had to do the wrong thing for the right reasons.

He smiled.  “Yeah, Ma. I’m just peachy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Footnotes
> 
> ✷[Ma Pines was a Shriner](http://www.daughtersofthenile.com/about_who.htm), my dude. She gave the fez to young homeless Stan in the hope a fellow brother (or in her case Daughter) would grant him entrance and shelter but he was stubborn, and never approached them. 
> 
> ✯ I'm from New Zealand and was introduced to the Hell that the Bumblebee Song for kids by an American friend...I am still disturbed by a href="http://lyrics.wikia.com/wiki/Traditional:Baby_Bumblebee">this song.... but bee-related violence is my niche.
> 
> Translation Notes  
> *This is the declension of the noun Amor or Love, it can also mean sex if your a roman poet but tbh so can everything. It's masculine/ third declension, I can still remember that and I haven't studied latin in almost ten years end, don't do Latin... it's like the most repetitive drug ever. 
> 
> **“My little miracle.” 
> 
> ***“I regret everything that happened to him…I regret it every day.”(A/N: I may have royally ballsed up with my passive constructions, Mea Culpa. It’s been quite a while since High School German.
> 
> **** I'm sorry (but lit: It causes me suffering. German gets my edgelord soul.)


End file.
